


I Went Wading in the River Lethe

by lucdarling



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Amnesia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-18
Updated: 2011-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 11:45:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucdarling/pseuds/lucdarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man wakes up with few memories but some surprising abilities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> written for [this prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/3266.html?thread=1298882#t1298882) at [avengerkink](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/)

Frank Jenssen ambles along the street, leaning on his cane like he was twenty years older than he is. An old injury from high school might have ruined his chances at going pro but the night classes at the community college aren't so bad. He stops short when he catches sight of a prone form lying in the alleyway across the street. This area isn't one to attract the homeless so Frank thinks the guy might be hurt.

He kneels next to the stranger, hands fluttering over his chest and the futuristic purple sleeveless vest he's wearing. Maybe Frank isn't supposed to move him, in case they guy has a spinal injury; he wishes he paid more attention during the first aid lessons. He dials 911 on his cell phone and the guy's eyes open as Frank's ending the call with dispatch.

Blue eyes scan the surroundings with practiced ease and Frank wonders if the guy's military. He manages not to recoil as the intense stare settles on him.

“Where am I?” The man's voice is low and he holds a hand to his head as he speaks.

“Ambulance should be here in five minutes, man.” Frank hopes his voice is calm. “You're in Charleston. Just stay calm.” He helps the man sit up against the brick wall.

“The Carolinas? What the hell am I doing here?” Frank could only shrug at the man's question.

“You have a name I can call you?” He asked instead. The man looked stricken.

“I-I don't know.” The man shifts against the wall and closes his eyes for a long moment. “Fuck. I don't remember who I am or how I got here.” He sounds resigned.

Frank tries to keep his voice steady. “Well, do you sound like an Adam? Alan? Tony?” The last name brought a frown and an almost disgusted expression so Frank moves on. “David? Benny? Bill?” He looks at the purple top the man is wearing. “Barney?”

The name brought a small smile to the face and the man nods. “It sounds familiar, at least.” They stop talking as the ambulance pulls up, sirens wailing and the EMTs hurry over.

Frank digs in his wallet as the professionals put Barney on a wheeling cot. He tucks whatever cash he has into his hand and hopes it's enough for a room at the men's shelter for a few nights.


	2. A Return to Self

Barney's taken to the hospital, trying to wrack his brains through the pounding headache for any scrap of information. The ambulance drivers are pretty nice and understanding, writing his name in as Barney on the form and taking his blood pressure during the drive.

He takes a seat on an empty bed, legs dangling off the edge. A rather harried nurse pushes aside the curtain when she come in. She takes his blood almost brusquely, ignoring Barney's attempts at flirting. The nurse leaves, telling him not to move. Barney nods and lays back on the bed. He feels like he could lay here for more than the hour and a half it takes her to return with the results of a tox screen. Barney hasn't moved a single muscle from when he first stretched out on the bed. Maybe he's in a job where he has a lot of patience but the sound of the children crying two beds over leads him to believe it isn't with children.

“There's no alcohol in your system, nor any other drugs.” The nurse says as she walks in. She looks calmer than before and Barney wonders if she took a smoke break before coming back. He notices the nicotine stain under her nails and yeah, this level of hyper-focus he apparently has is weird. Barney listens to her tell him that he has some sort of amnesia but he's an adult so they can't keep him here. He nods absently when she gives him the address of the Crisis Ministries Men's Shelter and thinks he's definitely had practice at only half-listening to people talk at him.

“Do you understand everything?” The nurse looks at him sternly and Barney shakes his head.

“Verily.” Barney has the inexplicable urge to smile as the word came out. He didn't think it was a word he'd normally say, considering he dropped his voice. Maybe he's mimicking a friend but what sort of friend would talk so old-fashioned? For her part, the nurse just rolls her eyes and leaves the stack of papers next to him on the bed.

Barney walks over to the shelter, following the directions the nurse wrote down on the backside of a prescription sheet. It's a warm night so he's covered in a light sheen of sweat by the time he reaches the building. Whatever this vest is made of, it's not lightweight. The bored looking guy at the desk takes in Barney's name and directs him to an empty bed in the back room.

Most of the beds are full and Barney chooses the one in the corner farthest from the door. The pillow is thin but the blanket is obviously handmade. He strips in the bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror. He's got a lot of scars and more than a few look like gunshot wounds. Barney hopes his memory will come back soon because this is just annoying. He curls onto his side, back to the wall and slows his breathing.

Barney wakes, strangely calm for all that his dreams were filled with guns wielded by a fierce looking redhead and a suited man with a terrifyingly calm smile. He gets the feeling those two are his friends but it doesn't explain why he's watching them fight with Iron Man of all people. The second dream is of the New York skyline, Barney leaning over the ledge on a rooftop and holding a bow. He isn't sure how he feels about the dream that's likely a past memory that tells him he can kill people with ease and an antiquated weapon.

He doesn't talk about the memories over a hot breakfast and multiple cups of coffee but mulls it over carefully. He thinks he would have a tattoo or dogtags at least if he had been in the military but he woke up with nothing, not even an i.d. Barney finds a knapsack that's seen better days in the used items bin the shelter has and also picks up a long sleeve shirt. He can't go around in just this sleeveless vest that might actually be Kevlar.

Barney realizes as he's walking around Charleston that he needs a way to make money. He has more than one memory of a bar so he heads toward that area of town, figuring he can try his hand at pool and hoping he's not a former alcoholic. The sign outside the first bar he sees advertises a darts competition that evening and something inside Barney grows warm at the thought.

He walks in and finds an empty barstool, not hard when the place isn't even half full. The competition starts in an hour so he orders a beer and relaxes as much as he can in a strange place with a Swiss cheese memory.

The bar slowly fills up and Barney sets down his second beer when it seems guys are lining up across from the small target. He joins them, sharing his name and not much else. The weight of the dart is familiar, almost comfortable in his hand, red tip between his fingers. Barney shifts his footing and lets the dart fly, watching as it hits dead center. The other four make a neat ring around the first, all of them in the center. Barney grins. It turns out he's damn good at throwing darts.

The competition ends up being between Barney and a stocky guy in his mid-twenties who's in with all his buddies. The militaristic way they hold themselves makes Barney think they either just graduated from the military school up the road or are on leave. Either way, it's clear he's the local favorite but Barney gets a few polite claps when he steps up to take his turn.

He throws the darts with unerring accuracy and little pause between the five projectiles, landing them all neatly in the red circle. The loudmouth favorite tries to match him but his fourth dart goes a hair too wide, landing on the ring outside the center. Barney's tempted to tell him it's because he released too late, though he has no idea why he knows that.

The bar owner gives him the night's earnings, close to $400. Barney thanks him with a smile and returns to his bar stool and a fresh beer. He tips the bottle towards the loser who only scowls at him and stomps out. Barney amends his previous estimate of the guy's age to early twenties.

Barney isn't that surprised to see the kid he'd beaten at darts waiting for him in an alleyway up the block when he decides to leave the bar. He adjusts the straps of the sack and walks in that direction. His body is tense, waiting for a fight. Barney only hopes he's got the muscle memory to back up this half-baked idea.

“Something I can help you boys with?” Barney drawls, knowing he's being irritating but it's too much fun to let the opportunity slide.

“Yeah, give me back my money you cheater!” The cry from the loser isn't wholly unexpected.

“Try and take it from me.” Barney counters calmly and steps aside as one of the three boys goes rushing past with a wild swing. He lifts his knee and connects with the kid's gut with enough force to knock the wind out of him. Barney's pretty sure he could kill them all without breaking a sweat, the knowledge is in his bones, he just knows it.

The other two pause before rushing him as one attack. Barney's leg sweeps out, tripping up the one on the left. The sore loser is the one to land a punch to his chest but Barney doesn't feel it through the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He snaps his hand out, blocking the next punch and it turns out his instinct the kid was military was right. Barney's not sure how he knows that the self defense moves the kid is trying to use are that of the United States Marine Corp but he does. His mind doesn't have a name for the blocking pattern his hands use but there's a flash of the redhead in a boxing ring and also an older guy in front of a circus caravan.

Barney is reminded where he is currently when he stumbles, the kid he'd kneed jumping on his back. Barney quickly snaps out a hand, easily breaking the kid's wrist and then launches himself backward, pinning the kid on his back between the alley wall and his own body. He feels a grin steal over his face when the kid tries to choke him and he almost takes pleasure in squeezing the wrist with force.

He leaves the three on the ground with only a broken wrist and a dislocated shoulder between them. Barney is certain is could have been much worse.

Barney returns to the men's shelter because he's got a lot of cash now but it doesn't seem wise to just blow it on a hotel room. He can figure out how to get to New York City in the morning because the flashes his brain keeps sending him are now just shots of Central Park, coffee mugs on desks of paperwork and him looking at the city from above it from yet another rooftop or window.

He gives a few bills to the guy at the desk and heads to the back room, knapsack dangling from his hand. There's some guys playing poker in the corner but his attention is take up by the fact that the suited man from his dream is standing next to the bed he'd used last night. Barney stops in the doorway and the man's lips twist up wryly.

“You go off the grid for a darts competition in some backwater bar, really?” Barney walks toward him cautiously.

“I don't know what you're talking about... sir.” He tacks on the honorific because it's familiar. Barney guesses the guy might be his boss but what sort of boss tracks down their employee to a men's shelter in the Carolinas? Seriously, what sort of job does he hold? He blinks and a memory comes rushing back: lying a hospital bed and being offered a choice between jail or working for a tall black man with an eyepatch.

“It's commonplace for someone to update a status from their phone nowadays.” The man remarks blandly. “Facebook is remarkably less private than one thinks.” Barney just stares at him in shock. “Barton, you look shell-shocked.” The man guides him to the bed and crouches down next to him.

Barney, no, his name is _Barton_ , sits on the edge of the bed and tries to remember. “Sorry, I just don't remember much.” He smiles ruefully and the blue-eyed man's hand covers his knee.

“Amnesia?” He asks sharply and Barton just reaches in his knapsack, handing the suited man all the papers from the hospital. He reads them over, the slightest beginnings of a frown drawing down his lips. Barton doesn't mention that he's apparently attracted to this man who might be his boss but he seems to know it anyways, if the fond look he gives Barton is any indication.

He looks up from the papers and smiles. Barton gets the feeling this is a smile meant only for him. “I'm Phil Coulson, liaison to the Avengers. Your name is Clint Francis Barton and you're the best marksman in the nation. Your codename is Hawkeye.”

It feels right to correct Phil with “the world, you mean.” and it earns Clint a laugh.

He sleeps on the private plane to New York and wakes up with more memories than he had that morning. The first thing he does when they land is lean over and kiss his lover.

“Welcome home.”


End file.
